The King's Wife |Kylo Ren x Reader|

XVII-He, Who Sits the Throne

Swords clash and clank in the courtyard. Over the din of metal scraping is the boisterous clamor of the crowd that surrounds the sight. The noise fills the usual harmonious squabble of the occasional chicken, the clanking of armor in the distance, the whinny of horses, and the creaking of wood. The peace of the afternoon is disrupted within this courtyard, surrounded by its high walls and battlements.

Despite the mud and the uneven surface of the cobblestone, many of the soldiers come here to train and duel when they have time away from their rounds. It is highly secluded, so as not to disturb the nobility, and can only be accessed through the armory, heavily guarded by burly sentries.

The men find creative ways to train here. Shooting their arrows at bags stuffed with wool when the archery range is full, lifting and tossing bales of hay to keep their strength, dueling with dull swords or swords made from wooden planks, or simply fighting hand-to-hand for the adrenaline of cuts and bruises. On some days, even the guards or the servants walking along the top of the walls will stop to watch their brutality.

Today, the courtyard is full, though the usual stations remain empty. The men have squeezed into the center of the courtyard. This happens often when the Knights of Ren decide to duel and practice their skills. On these rare occasions, the crowds form quickly around them. Rowdy men who place bets and holler at the top of their lungs, raising hands into the sky. Today is no different. Today, the soldiers roar with noise, shout curses, and thump their fists against their armored chests as they whoop and bellow.

Today, the king and his most loyal knight duel.

It happens occasionally. When the king is tired of training without an opponent and Sir Vicrul is bored of fighting inadequate soldiers. Both competitive in their nature, their duels outlast those of the common man. There is an understanding between them; neither will draw blood. 

Fueled by the bloodthirsty desire of the crowd, Kylo Ren's fire rages on. Sweat has long graced his flesh. It causes his dark locks--drenched and wavy--to cling to his forehead in clumps. The traces of it are in his eyes, the taste of it on his tongue. The heavy clothes he often finds himself in have been abandoned for mobility. The simple linen of his shirt sticks to his damp skin. Adrenaline pumps through his veins and dilates the dark cores of his pupils. Mud squelches beneath the leather of his boots as he carefully rounds his opponent. 

"Give in yet?" Sir Vicrul taunts as he and the king circle one another.

Adjusting his grip on the hilt of his heavy sword, Kylo grits his teeth and knocks his knight back with a grunt. The soldiers cheer as Vicrul slides back through the muck, his foot coming dangerously close to crossing the white line painted in a large circle. That was the objective of their game. To disarm, force a yield, or push the other out of the circle.

Unfazed, Sir Vicrul twirls his sword and lunges forward again with shocking speed for his height. Their swords clash and scrape together, connecting between them again and again without fail. They had both been stripped of any armor, dueling instead in plain clothes that have begun to stink of their effort. Sweat pours down their faces in rivers, dripping down from the ends of their hair, their chins, and their eyebrows.

"You're getting weaker." Kylo spits out as their swords cross between them. His knuckles are white around the hilt. He forces their blades up and apart before delivering a swift kick to his opponent's stomach that puts distance between them.

Shouts of "finish the poor bastard, Your Majesty" echo through the large crowd of men that had formed around the ring. The other Knights of Ren have front row views of the fight and have all crouched down to better see the enviable footwork.